This is not Love, perhaps, Love that lays down its life, that many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, But something written in lighter ink, said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk, And then the finding we can walk More firmly through dark narrow places, And meet more easily nightmare faces; A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand, And then find Earth less like an alien land; A need for alliance to defeat The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas, Halts for discoveries to be shared, Maps checked, notes compared; A need, at times, of each for each, Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.